Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night As a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear - Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
King. [Rising] My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
The Moor is of a free and open nature, That thinks men honest that but seem to be so; And will as tenderly be led by the nose As asses are.
Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favor and to prettiness.
The rest, is silence.